


The Hero and the Villain

by maggief



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Drowning, Gen, Infanticide, Murder, Reincarnation, Self harm/attempted suicide, War, this will not make you happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggief/pseuds/maggief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur dies, Merlin's grief is heavy on his heart. When Arthur is reincarnated, he thinks that he has been forgiven for failing to protect Arthur's life at Camlann. How wrong he was. <span class="small">(Or, when reincarnation goes wrong, how far will Merlin go for peace?)</span> Please read the warnings. From <a href="http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/32553.html?thread=34126889#t34126889">this prompt</a> (and the variation) on KMM. Also, influenced by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5vAsewkWwQ">The Enemy</a> by Mumford & Sons (I do love them).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hero and the Villain

“Arthur, don’t go.” Merlin’s voice was pleading, desperate as he grabs hold of Arthur’s wrist; as if he can keep him there through brute strength, prevent him from leaving by never letting go. 

“I have to.” He wrenches his arm from Merlin’s grasp, heads towards the door.

“Arthur, you don’t have to fight this war.”

Arthur turns back towards Merlin, shaking his head. “Can’t you see Merlin, it’s the only thing I can do.”

Merlin steps forward and falls to his knees at his King’s feet, “It’s not your fault. Mordred tricked you, tricked all of us, but that doesn’t mean you have to give your life up in penance.”

Arthur stares down at the man at his feet, his closest friend and most trusted advisor, but he can’t take his advice now. “We don’t even know if that prophecy is true, Merlin. I’m certainly not planning on dying today.” The grim set of his jaw tells a different story though, Arthur knows as well as Merlin does what heading out to face Mordred really means. 

“Arthur.” Merlin doesn’t have a counterargument to Arthur’s stubbornness. 

“Merlin, there are some things that honour cannot ignore. Mordred has been massacring my people, he’s been burning whole villages to the ground. My people, Merlin. It is my duty to protect them, even if the cost is my life.”

“I’m not saying don’t protect them, but send someone else! You have scores of loyal knights, who’d fight him just as well as you can.” Merlin’s hands have latched on to Arthur’s feet and his eyes are wet with tears.

“If I let someone else die in my place, then I’m no better than Mordred. No man is immortal Merlin, and if I hide from my duty to save my own life then…” Arthur shrugs his shoulders, as if the answer is obvious. “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. And I won’t let myself become a villain.” Arthur gives Merlin one last look, before he turns around and heads swiftly out the door. Merlin’s hands are left grasping at air where Arthur’s boots used to be.

Merlin follows Arthur to the battlefield, even though Arthur had commanded him to stay behind, to run Camelot and care for his people in his absence. He cannot leave Arthur to his fate along, and if by some miracle he can substitute his life for Arthur’s, then all the better. He follows Arthur, even though he knows what he will find.

Nothing happens for a week. The battle rages around them, but there is no sign of Mordred. Arthur leads his men from the front, and it is a glorious sight to behold. Their young, charismatic king, and his legion of loyal men fight seamlessly together, and Merlin allows himself to believe that perhaps there’s no such thing as prophecy after all. He should know better though.

It comes when he’s least expecting it. One moment the sun is shining, barely a cloud in the sky; the next darkness descends over the battlefield, lightening crackling in the newly formed clouds. And Mordred strides alone out into the centre of the battlefield. All the fighting stops around him as swords slip from limp fingers, all of Arthur’s knights rendered immobile by one simple spell falling carelessly from Mordred’s lips. Merlin works frantically to counteract the other sorcerer’s power, but Arthur is already striding out to meet Mordred, to meet his fate head on. 

It’s over within seconds. As Arthur lifts his sword to attack, Mordred eyes glow with power and Arthur is engulfed in flames. Arthur’s shrieks of pain will haunt Merlin for the rest of his life, and even as he shouts a spell, as his magic races across the battlefield to strike Mordred dead, he knows it is too late. His spell hits Mordred as Arthur falls to the ground, and by the time Merlin reaches him, his king is already dead.

* * *

_“For I must into the vale of Avalon to heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou hear nevermore of me, pray for my soul”. Morte D’Arthur_

The aftermath of Arthur’s death is exacting, and it almost asks more from Merlin, from all of Arthur’s men, than they are capable of giving. For some men it means death. After Arthur’s own death on the battlefield, and the fall of Mordred also, both sides continue to fight each other, desperate to avenge the death of their leader. The fighting continues for nearly two months until each side, bloodied and exhausted realises they no longer know what they are fighting for. Both have lost so much; the men of Camelot are barely half the number they started with, and most of the knights that were closest to Arthur, his most trusted companions, have joined him in the afterlife. Avalon. Merlin dreams of Avalon, of seeing his friends again, of seeing Arthur.

He has continued to fight at the front of the battle these last two months. He thinks if he kills enough of Mordred’s men, if he turns the tide of the war, then he will be redeemed. That he will be forgiven for the death of the king. It’s not his fault, they tell him, but there’s no one else to blame. Once the fighting is over, the remainder of Arthur’s men retreat back to Camelot. They are bloodied and bowed but they are still Arthur’s men; who will rule them now?

They find Camelot in disarray when they return. With Merlin and all Arthur’s trusted advisors away on the battlefield, the court has been watched over by lesser men. Men who do not understand what it really means to rule a people; how to care for them, to love them, to govern them, and punish them. Within a month of their return to Camelot, the town has become a meeting place for all the great powers in the country, and many of the weaker ones as well. Kings and regents, lords and nobles, all have converged on Camelot to take from it what they can. Another month is spent devising treaties, dividing up the land, and its people, its crops and its livestock. All of Arthur’s kingdom is divided piecemeal amongst any man with the slightest claim of governance. It grieves Merlin to watch Arthur’s great dream crumble into dust before his very eyes. Every night he dreams of Avalon, dreams of Arthur calling to him from a distant shore. There is no boat to row across the water though, and when he tries to swim his clothes feel like lead weights, dragging him under, drowning him.

Merlin remains in Camelot, although he does not know why. The new ruler, Merlin will not call him king, does not know he is a sorcerer, does not know of his power, and Merlin has no desire to enlighten him. He does odd jobs, menial tasks, helps out the new court physician. His magic was not enough to save Arthur, so what is the point of using it now? The dragon always told him that he and Arthur had this great destiny together, that his magic existed to serve a higher purpose; what purpose was that? Arthur is dead, and Merlin is left here alone in this meaningless existence, his whole destiny in ruins. What was he meant to do now?

It’s not until spring rolls round again that Merlin realises it has been a whole year since Arthur’s death. A whole year of this aching loneliness, and what has he achieved? Nothing. His whole life without Arthur has amounted to nothing, he has no purpose anymore, no meaning. Merlin realises that for the past year he has still been waiting. Waiting for something to happen, for Arthur to reappear, to awake from a bad dream. But there’s no bringing the dead back to life, and this is no dream. 

Merlin had heard whispers, right after Arthur’s death. Whispers of another prophecy. A prophecy that told of the rebirth of Arthur, that he would be resurrected to aid his country once again and the fire of Albion would be reignited. Merlin has been waiting for the fire, but all he’s found are the dying embers of an old world, of a time now past that is all but cold, lifeless ashes. 

So now he knows what he must do. His destiny was always entwined with Arthur’s, and thus connected he must stay. If Arthur is dead and awaiting him in Avalon, why is Merlin making him wait? Arthur had never been patient at the best of times, and Merlin can easily imagine the ribbing he’s going to get when he finally arrives at Arthur’s side. _Took your time, Merlin. Got something more important to be doing?_. No, nothing more important than you, sire. 

Merlin bids farewell to those few people left on this earth who mean anything to him. His mother is long dead, and so is Gaius. None of Arthur’s most trusted knights now remain, and Gwen had been one of the first casualties of the war. Merlin still has a few friends left amongst the servants though, and he says his goodbyes. He’s going on a long journey, he tells them, and he doesn’t think he’ll come back to Camelot. Some are sad to see him go, others just watch him with a knowing look in their eyes; they know where he really plans to go and with their silence they encourage him, they do not judge. War has changed them all, and things which were once abhorrent sometimes have their place in this new world. They leave Merlin to his journey and go about their lives.

In terms of possessions he has very little, but he won’t need them where he’s going anyway. He takes a travelling cloak, a stick to lean on although he does not need it, and a few provisions of food. He plans to walk some way from Camelot before his journey ends; he doesn’t want to be found. It is the first day of summer when Merlin finally sets out, and the early morning sun is already warm on the back of his neck. As he crests the hill marking the outer borders of the town, he glances back towards his home. How similar this is to the first day he arrived in Camelot, all those years ago. Merlin is struck by the cyclical nature of the world; as planets orbit the sun, so our lives go round in circles, and his is now heading towards completion.

He walks for a week until he arrives in a land that he no longer recognises. He has never come here before, and there is no trace or memory of Arthur with him now. Except, that could never be true; Arthur is always present within Merlin’s heart, and he feels the absence of his presence more keenly than he has felt any corporeal pain. It is late afternoon when Merlin spies the lake in the distance with a small wooden boat abandoned off to one side, and finally he knows how he will end his life. 

He remembers Lancelot, and how he was finally able to give him the burial ritual he deserved. He will join Lancelot in that honourable death, and the flames will absolve him of all his sins. He eats the last of his food on the shore of the lake, and not a single ripple disturbs its surface. In the dying light he gathers leaves and ferns from the surrounding wood and piles them into the boat as his death bed. Finally, he is ready, and he pushes the boat off from the sandy shore, climbing into the shallow boat and lying down amid the soft greenery. 

He breathes deeply, once, twice before whispering a single word of power. _Forbearnan_. Flames curl around the edges of the boat and within moment the leaves within ignite. Merlin can already feel the heat from the fire, and he closes his eyes to await his death.

Death however, does not come swiftly. Merlin can feel the heat, but it does not burn. He opens his eyes and at first the sight he is confronted with makes no sense. The flames have engulfed his body, and the boat burns beneath him. But he is untouched, the fire does nothing to him. It does not burn, it does not blister, it does not harm him at all. Merlin lies there, unbelieving, until the boat has burnt to cinders below him, and he falls into the water underneath. Perhaps the fire will not burn him because it is made of his own magic? It was stupid of him not to think of that, but no matter, drowning will suffice. 

He leaves his eyes open this time as he allows all the air to leave his body. Slowly he sinks down towards the bottom, the only light coming from the moon and the few burning remnants of the boat that have not yet been swallowed down by the water. Merlin sits on the bottom of the lake, and still death will not come. He breathes in great gulps of water, filling his lungs up and up until he can take in no more. Yet, he still lives. He sits there on the bottom of the lake until the morning light filters down, heralding to dawn of a new day. 

He realises his attempt at drowning is futile, then. Briefly he contemplates sitting on the bottom of this lake until the end of time. The world must end at some point; would Merlin survive that, too? He will not find Arthur in this watery grave though, and so he swims to the surface, the cool morning air filling his lungs as if the water was no more than a dream.

He lies on the bank of the shore and stares up at the sun. He curses its brightness, he curses the new day; he wasn’t meant to be alive to see this dawn. As he lies there he recalls that he has one chance left. Strapped to his belt is an old ornate knife. It had been a gift from Arthur, once, and even though Merlin had been headed to his death he had been unable to part with it. Now it will lead him into death, instead. He sits up to stare out over the lake, and draws the knife from its sheath. He takes a deep breath and bares the pale skin on his forearms. They are waiting, and he is ready. Ignoring the pain, he forces the point of the knife through his skin and then drags the blade upwards towards his elbow. Bright beads of blood blossom in the wake of the knife and soon his arm is awash in red. He quickly passes the knife over to his other hand before he loses the power to grip, and repeats the same action quickly, methodologically. 

He drops the knife down between his feet and holds him arms out in front of him, watching the torrent of blood they produce with peace. This is it, his body cannot function without blood. He sits, and he waits, but still death does not come. There is a pool of red around his feet, covering his legs and arms, but he does not even feel lightheaded. As he stares in horror, the blood on his arms stops flowing, the rivers are dammed. He watches as the broken skin underneath knits itself back together, as his body refuses death.

He hangs his head in defeat, tears heavy in his eyes. The knife lying on the ground below reflects the light of the sun, and they both mock him. He rails at death, and Death smiles back. I will not take you, Death says, you are not mine.

* * *

He follows Death around the globe, hoping that He may take him by accident. Death never does. He fights in every war, every battle he can find, but survives them all. He cannot die. Two hundred years pass and every day is the same for Merlin, defined merely by the absence of Arthur. Then one day Merlin finally thinks that all his prayers have been answered. He is in a village in the north-west, hundreds of miles from Camelot. He’d arrived last night and the locals seem welcoming, even of sorcerers. There are trinkets of magic strung on lines between houses. When the wind blows they are said to send their prayers out into the world, the magic imbued in them meant to ensure those prayers are answered. 

It feels peaceful here, and for once Merlin is not thinking of death, he is not seeking war. He thinks that perhaps he could become a physician again, using magic this time to make his remedies more potent whenever his medical skills were lacking. The morning dawns bright and clear, although winter is nearby and there is a silver dew wetting the grass, the slightest hint of frost crunching underfoot. Merlin is heading towards the dwelling of the village chieftain when he sees it, sees him. _Arthur_. He almost shouts the name out loud, but stops himself before the first syllable can leave his lips. He is losing it again, seeing Arthur in every light and shadow. This is but a child, and if the golden glow of his hair is the same hue as Arthur’s, then it is merely a coincidence.

He turns his eyes away from the back of the child reluctantly, he doesn’t want the villagers to get the wrong impression of him and his intentions for their village. The blond haired boy is playing with several other children, all around 10 years old and barefoot despite the morning chill. The children are playing some nonsense game, and their rhymes follow him down the street: _flea, fly, friar, fig, turn his leg into a twig; snail, slug, straw, snitch, let her burn for she’s a witch_. They’re just children, Merlin tells himself, just children, the rhyme means nothing. He’s instantly aware, though, the moment the children stop, and he thinks they must be looking at him, they must know.

He turns back around, expecting the children to be lined up behind him. To his surprise he sees them running off into the distance, hair and skirts flying in the wind. One child remains, the boy with the blond hair, and he’s looking down at his feet as he scuffs them in the dirt. Merlin knows though, he knows.

‘Arthur.’ The word is barely a breath but it almost chokes him.

The boy looks up instantly, sky blue eyes wide; the face may be younger than he’s used to, but there’s no mistaking those eyes.

Merlin stays in that village for longer than he’s lived anywhere else in the last 200 years. He watches Arthur grow up from a precocious 10 year old into the man he remembers. Merlin thinks that he’s been forgiven, that everything’s ok this time, until suddenly it’s not.

They come in the dead of night, dressed all in black as though they can blend into the night itself. They are the bringers of death, responding to some petty slight the local warlord thinks the village elders have committed against him. No one survives the night. Except Merlin. Arthur dies in his arms this time, and Merlin watches as the life drains out of those eyes he loves so very much. 

He sits there, surrounded by the dead, cradling Arthur’s limp body in his arms until the skin decays, until the clothes rot away into nothing. He cradles Arthur’s body for years until he holds only bones, and then he moves on.

The next time he sees Arthur, he thinks he’s finally gone mad, that his brain has finally succumbed to the hallucinations that circle around his dreams like so many murderous crows. Arthur is older than Merlin has ever seen him and his hair now is more grey than blond. It suits him though, makes him look every inch the noble king Merlin knew he had been at heart. He must be nearly fifty, much older than Merlin appears to be.

He expects to be rebuffed as he approaches the older man, he is a stranger after all. Arthur takes one look at him though and breaks out into a delighted smile, throwing his arms around Merlin.

‘You made it.’ Arthur says, and it’s the only allusion either of them makes to having known each other before.

Merlin wants to ask what Arthur remembers, if he remembers dying. He wants to ask what it feels like; it’s a fascination he’s developed. The one thing he may never experience, and he covets it with intense jealousy. He hopes the spell is broken now; surely an older Arthur is a good sign. They settle into an easy rhythm together. Arthur has a young wife, but they live a comfortable life, and she never once asks about the new addition to their household, not within earshot of Merlin at least.

Arthur has two beautiful young children as well, a boy and a girl, and they love Merlin. He shows them silly magic tricks to entertain and amuse them, but more importantly they make Arthur smile, and that’s enough for Merlin. After a year, Merlin allows himself to relax, allows himself to sleep at night, to breath easy. Nothing’s going to happen, it’s going to be ok.

On a beautiful day at the beginning of spring, Arthur takes his children out sea fishing. He’d asked Merlin to join them, but he’s never had much of a stomach for water so he’s content to leave them on their own. Hours later, he realises his mistake. At first he doesn’t really notice the wind picking up. He’s inside, doing some reading, and the sound of the trees creaking in the wind blends into the background. It’s when the shutters start to slam against the side of the house that Merlin starts to take notice, when the rain starts to drown out the sound of his thoughts that he’s aware. His second realisation makes him sicker than any boat could; Arthur is out in this.

He races towards the beach, the feeling of dread choking him. As he reaches the shore, he sees two things at once. The broken remains of Arthur’s small fishing boat floating amongst the crashing waves; and the man himself, swimming against a current far stronger than even his stubborn will, trying to get to his drowning children.

Merlin dives in without a second thought, heading straight for Arthur. He can’t let this happen again, _he can’t, he can’t, he can’t_. Arthur’s head slips under before Merlin can reach him, and it’s still several minutes until Merlin is diving down at the spot he last saw Arthur. He’s too late, and he knows it. He drags Arthur’s lifeless body back up to the surface, but all the magic in the world cannot make him breathe again, cannot make his heart start beating once more.

The children drown and he doesn’t even notice, too preoccupied with Arthur, too desperate to save him. When he realises, he can’t find it in himself to care, they mean nothing to him. The storm rages on for a week as Merlin lies at the bottom of the sea, clutching Arthur’s body tightly. Lightning illuminates his darkest thoughts, and they are given life in the violent intensity of the tempest.

He’s being punished for something, but he doesn’t know what.

* * *

_“For Brutus is an honourable man;  
So are they all, all honourable men—”  Julius Caesar Act III Scene ii_

Merlin always swore that he would protect Arthur or die at his side, but his word has been broken. He cannot die in place of Arthur, and so his promise is meaningless. An honourable man would keep his word; an honourable man would die for his king. So where does that leave Merlin? If he cannot save Arthur, then why is he here, why can he not die?

Merlin wonders, aimlessly, for many years, until he stumbles across another war quite by accident. It is 1455, and he sides with the Yorkists at St. Albans, ensuring their victory there. He remembers what it is like to fight in a war, remembers the bloodshed he followed across the land nearly a thousand years ago. It feels good to put his body towards a purpose again, it feels right.

Many men fall to his magic, not all of them from the opposing side. Only one man dies by his own bare hands. It is a young lad, no more than twenty years old, who joined the fight to stand by his father’s side. It’s not him, Merlin knows, but he looks so uncannily like Arthur it could be his brother. The first time Merlin laid eyes on him his breath had caught in his throat, _Arthur!_ he wanted to scream. But no, the line of the jaw was not quite right, the shade of hair a little too dark.

Merlin cannot help but watch him though, can’t help but be fascinated by this boy. And so he’s aware the instance he falls on the battlefield, his leg crushed underneath a panicked horse. The war surgeons would cut this man’s leg clean off, and it should save his life, if Merlin only carried him to their tent. Or Merlin could cure him with magic, brand new in a matter of seconds. He does neither of these things though. 

Instead he draws out his dagger, the same one that Arthur had given to Merlin all those years before, and he slits the boy’s throat, leaving him to die there alone. Merlin leaves the battle and the army after that, and he doesn’t care who wins in the end. He never did; he was merely fighting for the sake of it, merely for something to do.

The thought of that boy plagues his nights and his waking hours too. Is this his lot, now? He wonders if he will be forever tormented by men who look like Arthur, but never able to see his king again, having failed him one time too many. He keeps himself away from civilisation, fearful of what he will find there if he ventures amongst men. 

A man cannot hide in the woods forever though, eventually someone will see him and people always talk. Some children spot him one afternoon as he is gathering firewood. They freeze in fear, but Merlin is the one paralysed by it. They run away laughing before Merlin can so much as blink, and he’s restless for days, wondering what will come of it. A week later, Arthur shows up. He’s young this time, barely out of his teens, but already so beautiful and so proud. He stands tall like the king he once was, though Merlin knows in these parts he can be nothing greater than a simple farmer. He smiles at Merlin like he’s golden, and perhaps in Arthur’s eyes, he is. 

When Merlin sees Arthur alive once again though, there is only one thing he can think about – how that boy had looked when he’d slit his throat. How soothing it had been to watch the life drain out of his body; to know the boy was at peace now, that Merlin had helped him. He should help Arthur too.

As Arthur reaches to embrace Merlin, his smile wide on his lips, Merlin plunges his dagger deep into his heart.

Arthur gasps for breath as he drops to his knees, Merlin’s name escaping with the sound, heavy with disbelief. His brow is furrowed in confusion because he can’t possibly comprehend why Merlin, his Merlin, would do this to him. He dies before he can ask the ‘why?’ that has already formed on his lips. Merlin kneels before him and kisses him once, briefly, on the forehead, before leaving him there on the leaf-strewn ground, alone. He hopes the cycle is broken.

A week later, a wave of power ripples through Merlin’s mind and he wonders how he never noticed this before. Arthur has been reborn. He can feel the pull of him as though it were a physical cord, joining them together, and so he follows it. He walks for a week, not stopping for either rest or sustenance, before reaching Arthur. Tiny, baby Arthur, sleeping soundly in his crib, his parents asleep in the next room. All of them so unaware of the stranger within their home. 

He approaches the sleeping child softly, but he wakes anyway. As Merlin looks into those tiny blue eyes, he can already see the spark of recognition there, a hint of awareness. He watches Arthur almost until sunrise, before reaching out and smothering the child with his own bedclothes.

The aftermath is quiet, too quiet. Gone are the soft susurrations of the child breathing, gone are the voices screaming inside Merlin’s head, the voices of Gwen, of Gaius, of his mother, begging him not to do it. He thinks he may have peace, that surely this is the end of it, but he’s never been more wrong.

Merlin knows to recognise the signs now, and he feels it when Arthur is reborn again two days later, feels his soul crumble into dust. He cannot win.

* * *

  
_”I am in blood_  
Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,  
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.”  Macbeth, Act III Scene iv  


He tries to think of it logically, but he can feel the strands of reason slip from his grasp like grains of sand in a clenched fist. His purpose had always been to protect Arthur, but when that purpose had been taken away from him, there wasn’t any other path for him to take. Merlin’s one wish had only ever been to be at Arthur’s side. In life, at the court of Camelot; first as a servant, and then as an advisor. In death, he had wanted to join Arthur in Avalon, the land of eternal summer. He wanted to spend eternity with his king; but if he couldn’t die, and Arthur couldn’t live, how was that possible?

They could neither be joined in life nor in death. Merlin forever tied to this earth, Arthur doomed to die again and again until the end of time.

The end of time, the end of all existence, the eternal abyss. There was something there, Merlin thought, something he couldn’t quite understand.

What were his choices? To live by Arthur’s side in each and every life. To watch him grow up, and then die over and over and over again. Or to ignore Arthur, in the hope that the pain would somehow be less every time he felt his life extinguished. Because feel it he could, now. He felt it when Arthur was reborn, and no matter what, he felt it when he died as well. Felt it like an icy cold dagger straight through his heart, felt it until he couldn’t breathe, like he was being smothered; his payment for what he’d done to Arthur as a tiny babe, defenceless and yet so trusting.

He’d killed his king. The one action that was the complete antithesis of his entire existence, and he’d done it twice. But, what difference had it made? Arthur walked the earth again, perfectly alive, and Merlin had not been struck down by some greater power in recompense. There were no consequences to Arthur’s death, whether at Merlin’s own hand or not. It was all meaningless. 

So what could he do?

Many nights he dreams he’s back in Camelot, roaming its deserted halls in the darkness. He’s looking for something, but he can never remember what, or where it might be. He doesn’t sleep well.

A lifetime later, he finally knows what he has to do, after he feels Arthur death and rebirth in the space of an hour. The cycle hurts more and more every single time, and he tries to find peace at the bottom of a whisky bottle. It doesn’t help the pain, but it does mute the endless voices in his head, the chattering of friends long dead always questioning, always judging. In those moments of silence, he finally understands.

He had failed Arthur all those years ago, when he had let him die the first time instead of saving him or taking his place. And in doing so he had altered the course of history, had ruined the very fabric of the universe. Merlin had existed to serve Arthur, he had been born of magic to ensure the goal of a united Albion. Merlin had failed in that goal, and something had gone wrong with the world that day. No matter how many times Arthur would be reborn, it would never solve that problem because Albion was already ruined. Arthur would be reborn until the day the sun exploded in the sky, taking all human life with it.

Merlin, therefore, only needed to expedite this end. If there was no earth, no human life, then Arthur could not be reborn into it. Merlin may not be able to die, but as long as he didn’t have to feel Arthur’s death time and time again for all eternity, he might be able to find some semblance of peace. Maybe the end of all existence could be the end for Merlin as well, as he so desperately hoped.

Could he do it, though? Destroy the entire world? He didn’t doubt his strength as a sorcerer, but he suspected for this he’d need something greater than one man alone. He’d need an army; he’d need nuclear war.

He’d made his way to Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the bombings there, hoping that maybe this modern form of death could kill his ancient body. It hadn’t, of course, but the air had tasted strange and the devastation had stuck with him, had permeated his dreams of Arthur.

This idea, this final plan is enough to extricate Merlin from his isolated exile, his only defence against encountering Arthur. He’d spent the last couple of decades on a deserted island below the tip of Argentina. Cold and windswept, he doubted whether any life had ever existed there, and that lack of vitality was comforting. Nothing could live here, so nothing could die. 

He makes his way back to the South American mainland. He’d never been sure if instant transportation was possible with his magic, but if it is he hasn’t mastered it, and he has no inclination to try now. It doesn’t matter though; he never tires nor grows hungry. He could walk for a whole year and feel nothing but boredom. He can make himself unseen to prying eyes though, and that skill comes in handy as he travels northwards. In Buenos Aires he obtains a passport; it’s early 2012, and Merlin would rather catch a plane across the Atlantic than swim across. Water makes him think of drowning, of death and Arthur.

Once in England he establishes himself in a dingy ex-council flat in Hackney; somewhere he can remain invisible, just another face in the crowd, but not too far removed. He starts to reacquaint himself with British life. He knows that Arthur was born 34 years ago and hasn’t died since, but he has no idea what he does. Arthur has never been reborn anywhere except England though, so he must be fairly nearby and Merlin does not know how he will cope if he sees Arthur. How long it will take to achieve his goal he does not know, but he hopes he can do it quickly, so he does not have to feel Arthur’s death and rebirth another time. Mostly he hopes that their paths do not cross, that he does not have to commit that crime again. 

Some things feel like fate though, and fate has a funny way of laughing at our misfortune. Two weeks after Merlin arrives in Britain, he sees Arthur on the television, discussing the Army’s planned withdrawal from Afghanistan, and how they are working with the Afghan locals to achieve this goal. _Major A.U. Pendragon, 2 Mercian_. Merlin spends a whole day laughing hysterically, tears flowing as he tried to claw his own heart out of his chest with blunt fingernails. To find Arthur high in the ranks of the British Army is the cruellest trick of all; he’s not sure he can kill his king again, if he could even face him. But Arthur had always been born to lead, no matter what lifetime. He wakes in the morning with bloodied hands and chest, but not a scratch on his pale body.

He dreams that night, and whether it is the prophecy of a genuine seer, or just happenstance, Merlin knows that it will become true regardless. If Merlin wages war, Arthur will fight against him.

Finally though, finally, something is different. No longer the endless cycle of an unchanging fate. Merlin and Arthur will be on different sides of this war, and perhaps that will make all the difference.

* * *

  
_”Only the dead have seen the end of war.”_ Plato  


“Major Pendragon, we’ve called you in here today for a matter of national security.”

Arthur was sitting in what could only be described as a war room, somewhere amongst the maze of rooms in 10 Downing Street, being droned on at by a short, stern looking woman. He suspected that neither the room, nor the woman, were ever featured on the official tour reserved for visiting heads of state and other important persons. Not that Arthur had been given the tour, of course. He’d been shuttled to Downing Street after dark and escorted straight to the room he sat in now.

Where he sat falling asleep, if he was being honest. All this cloak and dagger behaviour, and now the war room, and this lecture, seemed a little bit over the top. He was operating on just over an hour’s sleep, and his patience wasn’t great at the best of times; he’d really just like to know why he was here and then go home to sleep. And maybe eat something, but that wasn’t his priority right now.

“As such,” the woman continued in the same monotonous voice, “we’re going to have to ask you to sign the Official Secrets Act.”

Arthur barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “I’ve already signed that, several times if I recall correctly. You do know I’m in the Army, right?” 

This appeared to fluster the woman, who shuffled her papers nervously and cleared her throat several times, without speaking afterwards. A heavy silence lay on the room after that, and Arthur watch the second hand on the clock tick by torturously slowly, swearing at some times to see it stop completely. When Arthur had all but dozed off with his eyes open, Commander Nick Parker stalked into the room, closely followed by the Prime Minister, who looked exceedingly nervous.

Parker had gone to school with Arthur’s father, and although he hadn’t seen the man in a while, not since his father’s funeral at the very least, Arthur held a lot of respect for the man who was basically in charge of the whole Army. 

Arthur stood quickly to attention, hand snapping up into a sharp salute.

“At ease, Major. Please take a seat.”

Arthur did as he was told and stayed silent even though he was burning with curiosity.

“Arthur,” Parker said, nodding at him, “This is David Cameron, as I’m sure you’re aware. Mr Cameron, this is Major Arthur Pendragon, 2 Mercian.” The two men shook hands over the ornately carved wooden table, eyeing each other warily.

Arthur was expecting Cameron to speak, at least a perfunctory greeting, but the PM said nothing, merely took his seat and looked at Parker expectantly. _Curious,_ Arthur mused, _the PM deferring to the military man, but why?_

“We’ve been experienced some heightened terrorist activity, recently. We kept hearing the phrase _The End is Nigh_ in conjunction with that activity, and now we’ve finally managed to identify the source.” Arthur kept silent and nodded, unsure of why they were telling him this. “We’re looking to you, Major Pendragon, to help us in the counter-strike.”

“Me?” Arthur’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Why not get MI5 on this? The SAS?”

“Five _are_ working on this, so are SAS, and the SBS. The RAF and the Navy have both assembled teams, and we’re looking to you to make the third.”

Arthur balked internally at that list; what in hells name organisation were they facing that meant every armed unit in Britain was involved?

“So, why me?”

“Not only do you have an exemplary military record, but it is also correct that you read History at Cambridge, yes?”

It was Cameron speaking now, talking like he and Arthur were old friends and he hadn’t just read that information off the crib sheet in front of him.

“Yes, that’s correct.” Arthur’s reply, clipped, precise. 

“And an MPhil in Mediaeval History, specialising in warfare?”

“Yes, again. I fail to see how that is relevant though.” Arthur lips were pursed so tightly they were almost white. What was going on?

Cameron paused for a moment, seemingly to collect his thoughts before continuing. “There are certain… parallels, between the techniques being used and those of medieval times.” He tugged uncomfortably at his collar, loosening his tie.

Parallels? Why would anyone still be using mediaeval warfare techniques unless they were some sort of re-enactment nut? But role-play and fake swords wouldn’t have the PM sweating into his crisp cotton shirt.

“Just exactly what organisation are we dealing with here?” Arthur asked. “I’m assuming it’s not Al-Qaeda.”

Cameron and Parker exchanged a look, filled with meaning that Arthur couldn’t comprehend, but neither of them spoke.

“What are you not telling me?” There was an edge to Arthur’s voice now. No matter how powerful these two men, he hated being kept out of the loop.

“There is one more thing. The lads from Hereford tracked him down.” It was Parker speaking again now, and Arthur did a quick double take over his admission - _’him?’ – this was one man?_ “He was holed up in some dive in East London, and his flat…” Parker’s voice trailed off, lost for words, looking to the PM helplessly. Cameron looked away as Arthur watched a single bead of sweat drop from his brow.

“It was covered,” Parker continued, voice shaking, “in pictures of you, Pendragon.”

And then he knew.

_Merlin._

“I’ll do it.” Arthur said instantly, voice strong and firm. “But I pick my own team.”

* * *

  
_”Conscience is but a word that cowards use.”_ Richard III, act v scene iii.  


The battle is fought on Salisbury Plain. Arthur is glad; much of the area is owned by the military anyway, and not accessible to the public. It minimises the loss of civilian lives. His concern is mostly theoretical though. If he cannot win this battle, there will be no saving anyone. He knows what Merlin means to do.

War is so much worse than Merlin remembers. The years behind him have dulled the horrors that he’s lived before. The agony is complete the first time he meets Arthur’s eyes across the battlefield. His eyes are the same blue that Merlin sees in his dreams every night, the same blue that’s slowly driven him mad.

But it’s the knowledge there, the knowing, that drives a dagger straight through Merlin’s heart. It is the same knowledge that Merlin saw in the eyes of that tiny babe that Merlin had killed all those years ago. The knowledge that Merlin should be the one man he can trust more than anyone in the whole world. That knowledge is perverted now, because Arthur remembers not only his lives at Merlin’s side, but his deaths by his hand as well.

Arthur doesn’t remember a time without Merlin in his memory. He remembers each lifetime with startling clarity, as he remembers each death. What he doesn’t remember, what he has never known, is the grief that Merlin felt every time Arthur was torn from his side, whether by his hand or not. Arthur has never had to see Merlin break apart, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, and so he cannot understand.

It feels strange, to Arthur, to be fighting a battle in such close quarters. Modern warfare is all about killing the enemy from as far away as possible – air strikes and IEDs. In modern war you may never need to see your enemy at all, never need to smell his fear, see it mirrored in the whites of his eyes. Merlin’s magic means that no aircraft can fly across the battlefield, that rifles misfire, and explosives refuse to detonate. This is a battle once again fought with sword and arrow; each death is personal, delivered by hand.

Merlin has chosen Stonehenge as his base. His magic arcs up over the stones, interweaving with the ancient magic embedded there. It soars up golden into the sky, creating a cathedral of light and magic. Arthur thinks that beauty can be found in the strangest of places, even in the midst of war.

To fight by his side Arthur has chosen old friends, from school, from uni, from Sandhurst and from his unit. He’s chosen men he would die for. It’s strange to see them wielding swords instead of rifles, but most take to it like ducks to water. Arthur doesn’t remember any of them from _before_ , but he wonders if any of his friends have lived a previous life as well. How many of his friends have fought by his side before?

Merlin has amassed an army of magic users to his cause. He’s broken men out of insane asylums, picked them out of the gutters and given them weapons. Most of them are useless, barely able to light a candle with their magic, and wielding swords like dogs with old sticks. Arthur is not afraid of them. He is afraid of Merlin, of meeting him on this battlefield, of what he will find in his old friend’s eyes.

When they stumble across each other along a line of Neolithic long barrows it is entirely by accident, Merlin as surprised as Arthur to find him there.

They stand staring at each other, neither speaking. Merlin holds no sword, and his hands hang limply at his side. Arthur keeps his sword raised, ready to fight. There is no light of reason in Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur expects him to strike immediately, to cut Arthur down where he stands.

Merlin looks away first, his gaze drifting away down the line of barrows.

“They’re older than me, you know.”

Arthur looks around, nonplussed. Is he talking about his men? Merlin must read the confusion etched across his features, as he answers Arthur’s unspoken question.

“The barrows. The dead.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. Merlin is like a ghost before him, one of the dead himself.

“What’s it like to die, Arthur?”

Arthur almost lets a small laugh escape. That’s what he wants to know?

“Why are you doing this Merlin? Do the men you command know what you’re trying to do? What have you promised them? Why don’t you tell them what you really are?” Arthur’s questions are quick and angry. Surely his Merlin is in there somewhere, buried under the centuries between them?

“What I am? I’m a war hero!” Merlin is quick to anger, too, filled with ugly pride and a fire like the dragons he once controlled.

“What war? This one?” Arthur can’t believe that Merlin could possibly see himself as the good guy here.

“What war? _What war?!_ All of them! I’ve lived for hundreds of years, and I fought in ever war you’ve ever heard of. All men should bow down before me.”

Arthur can see the madness then, as sure as he can see the sun. There’s no bargaining with this Merlin, no shred of his oldest friend left inside. 

“No, they shouldn’t, Merlin,” Arthur replies ruefully, “You’re not the hero here.”

“I’m not the enemy! It isn’t me!” Indignant. “Death is the enemy, and I am Master of Death. He can’t touch me.”

“Is that what you really think? No man can master death, Merlin. Next time I see you, I’ll kill you myself. Or you can stop this; don’t you remember who you were?”

But Merlin does remember, that’s the problem.

* * *

  
_"Odi et amo… fieri sentio et excrucior."_ Catullus.  


As he walked away, back to his men, Merlin watched Arthur standing so tall and proud. And finally, he realised what he had done. Not being able to save his king once was torture enough, but to suffer through it more than once was pure agony. Everything he had ever done was for Arthur, though; when had that become so distorted? When had he become so twisted that he’d killed Arthur with his own hands, rather than protect him?

What had he done?

On the edge of the battlefield, Merlin breaks for the final time. On his knees, bloody and bruised, he cries into the dirt. He cries for the crimes he has committed against his king, against his very destiny. He cries for what he has destroyed between them. 

Still though, still, what could he do? He couldn't kill Arthur again, but he can't save him either. So still he has no choice. The plan must go on. The world has to end, because there's no way he can carry on existing in this torture, in the truth of what he's done.

He woke early the next morning, as the sun crested over the heel stone, painting the landscape red, like a blanket of the blood that would be shed that day.

As he steps out of the safety of the stone circle, Merlin feels the warmth of the Midsummer sun on his face. He remembers that same warmth from his very first lifetime, stretching across the abyss of centuries, feels the beauty and warmth of the earth and the sun and how it embraces him, even now. He can’t do this.

Then, Merlin remembers Arthur’s promise and maybe that’s where his salvation lies. An eye for an eye. Merlin had killed Arthur, now it was time for him to repay the favour.

As Merlin makes his way across the plain, it begins to rain. The sky was perfectly clear a moment ago, but he’s not sure whether he caused it or not; it fits perfectly either way. Within moments the rain is coming down in heavy sheets, the wind is howling, and the ground is turned to mud beneath Merlin’s feet. He only manages to make it half way towards Arthur’s camp before he is stopped by the kiss of cold steel at his throat.

“Merlin.” Arthur all but growls the name. “Not a step further.”

“Arthur.” Merlin chokes out.

For a moment, the hardness in Arthur’s eyes softens, and Merlin recognises the king he loved.

When Arthur sees Merlin on the battlefield that day, he knows something had changed. The arrogance is gone, in its place is resignation. Arthur thinks he can see some shadow of the Merlin he remembers from his first lifetime, the man who would have died for him.

“Why are you doing this Merlin? I don’t understand.”

It is Arthur’s quiet judgement that fuels the fire inside Merlin.

“I can't die Arthur!” he snarls at him, teeth bared like a wild animal. A storm is raging all around them now, and he has to shout to be heard. “I can't die, and don't you remember what you told me? You either die a hero, Merlin, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. If I can’t die, what other choice do I have?”

Merlin watches the emotions flicker across Arthur’s face. Confusion, surprise, understanding, pain. Finally, he gets it.

“You could have chosen honour, Merlin. Did I teach you nothing? So many innocent people are going to die if you don’t stop.”

Merlin can’t look Arthur in the eye, can’t face his judgement, so pure and true. 

“I can’t kill you again Arthur, please don’t make me do that. I need to do this, it’s the only way I’ll find peace. 

Arthur’s voice is filled with regret when he speaks again. “I told you I’d kill you if I saw you again.”

Merlin does look him straight in the eye now, hair plastered across his forehead obscuring his vision, but Arthur is clear before him, as he has been for a thousand years.

“So kill me.” It is a challenge and a plea. It is what he came here for now.

Arthur hesitates for the slightest of seconds, and then he plunges his sword deep into Merlin’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words stolen immediately by the wind.

There is a smile on Merlin’s lips as he dies for the first, and last, time.

* * *

  
_”My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar.”_ Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II.  


There is no battle to be fought, after that. The men under Merlin’s command are confused and scatter, as if Merlin had infused them with some greater purpose that is gone with his death. Salisbury Plain is ruined, all the grass churned into mud. But Stonehenge still stands strong in the empty landscape, a faint glimmer of gold still hanging overhead.

Arthur digs Merlin’s grave himself, covers it with stones like the cairns of old. 

Arthur quits the Army after that. He no longer wishes to deliver death to any man, no matter how just or necessary the cause. Despite all that Merlin had done to Arthur, he still remembers his oldest friend, his most trusted advisor. In the time of Camelot the only marriage had been between a man and woman, but Arthur had loved Merlin regardless. Had loved him every single day of every single life, and still loved him today. That could never change.

Arthur lives to be an old man this time, the longest he’s ever lived. And yet, even though he remembers all those times life was robbed untimely from him, this one still feels empty without Merlin at his side.

 _Bury me beside you,_ Merlin had begged, as the life bled out of him. And when Arthur died that’s what they did. Together, in eternity. Finally at peace.


End file.
